Soon after starting we lost his tracks, but pushed on nevertheless, following the course of the river. We soon reached the point where the Waso Nyiro divided into the numerous channels we had observed from the hilltop the previous evening, and there we first met the Burkeneji. We had temporarily lost sight of the river, and, striving to regain it, we struggled through a dense belt of Doum palms, eventually emerging to find ourselves in the bed of a sand river. We followed its course, and in a few minutes reached one of the channels of the Waso Nyiro. It was not more than a foot deep at this place, flowing smoothly over a soft bed of sand. We stopped to drink, and while in the act were confronted by a few natives, who suddenly emerged from the bush on the other side. I put on my most amiable smile, and walked into the river a little way. After a moment’s hesitation one or two of the Burkeneji—for it was indeed they—did likewise, and we met in midstream. I held out my hand and said “yambo,” on the chance that it would be understood. My _vis-a-vis_ answered immediately “serian” (peace), shaking my hand vigorously. I repeated the word after him in a very hearty manner, not at all assumed. This appeared to be precisely the right thing to do, as other natives now came across the river and fraternized with our men. They were fine, clean, wholesome-looking negroes, very much resembling the Masai in appearance, but, unlike them, were habited in cloth instead of skins. A chorus of “serian” resounded on all sides. One of our Wakamba named Mumbo could speak a little Masai, and through him we learned that El Hakim had passed near there an hour or two before. We left our new-found friends, and departed amid another chorus of “serian,” well pleased at our first meeting with the tribes we had braved so much to find.